


A Wedding, A Riot, A Prince of the Blood

by ehmazing



Series: Imperfect Contrition [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Gen, Interspecies Relationship(s), Political tension, Pre-War, Royalty, Violent Regime, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 01:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11772507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: The end of a world, the rise of an empire.





	A Wedding, A Riot, A Prince of the Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the chapter of the same name in Hilary Mantel's novel [A Place of Greater Safety.](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/101921.A_Place_of_Greater_Safety)
> 
> There are some references to characters and events in [By Prudence Ruled,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10269011/chapters/22742414) but you don't have to read through that to understand this fic.
> 
> This isn't entiiiiiirely compliant with the timeline set by s3e7, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ And uhhhh don't try to fact-check my fictional genetic science because it probably won't hold up…

They have a ceremony because Honerva's family insists upon it. Not Honerva herself; she was set firmly against the whole idea. "I loathe weddings," she told him time and time again. "They’re most ingenious method of torture ever designed by the Altean species."

But she'd been distant since her last visit home. It took some nagging to get her to confess that her family was badly shaken when they heard their daughter had been sharing the bed of an emperor for several years, and more shaken when they learned the match had not been sanctioned in an Altean temple—no matter that they were already wed under Galran law.

"So indulge them!" Alfor laughed when he heard the whole story over the comm. "Parade around your best battleships, deck your palace halls with flowers and garlands and throw a ball! I'll loan you my High Priest for the ceremony—that should be enough to please any stodgy Altean mother-in-law.”

He does everything as he is told. He brings her family gifts of sweet fruits and nuts. He leads Honerva by the hand to the sacred dais. The High Priest drones on for what feels like three decaphoebs and then finally binds their hands with a bright green cord, calling on the old gods to bless the match. Still his mother-in-law bites her lip throughout the entire ceremony, and Zarkon wonders if it would be futile to hope that she’d be close to tears for any reason other than despair that her only daughter has wed a foreign warlord.

Lady Vassa finds him at the banquet table, nursing his glass pensively while he watches the dancers sway. His bride trots carefully in the arms of the new Second Consort—Coran, Zarkon thinks he's called—every so often flashing him an exasperated look over her partner's shoulder. _I'm doing this only for you,_ her eyes say, before she must apologize again for treading on the Consort's toes.

"My dear Emperor," Vassa greets him, kissing him soundly on both cheeks. “May the Ancients bless your union! I must say you’ve thrown quite a beautiful ceremony for someone so new to our petty pageantries.” Zarkon manages to brush his dry mouth against her twin pink marks in turn before she pulls away. He is still unused to Altean customs, Altean affections. Honerva has lived with him for so long that she often turns off her translator and speaks to her assistants in Di'baash. She is far better at adapting to his world than he is to hers, his clever wife.

"Lady First Consort," he replies. "I am honored by your presence, though it comes as a surprise." His eyes dip to her swollen belly, heavy enough now that Vassa shuffles as she walks, unable to see where her feet meet the ground. "Your husband told me that you were unlikely to make the journey."

"My husband thinks I should be in a dark hut camped outside the Temple of Being, waiting for the Goddess of Mercy to end my plight." Vassa rolls her eyes. "This child has made him a superstitious fool. I'm fine, I assure you! I scaled the Garielon Pass for a training exercise only two days ago! And I'll do it again after the birth, no matter how Alfor frets, so the Heir of Altea can take their first breath of mountain air." She rubs a hand over her belly, chuckling.

"Go easy on him." Zarkon watches his friend, laughing with Blaytz as they shout warnings to every unfortunate couple who crosses their dancing warpath. "He's afraid he'll ruin the child somehow, or be a bad father." Vassa gives him a flat look. "Stupid, yes, I know, but that's how he is. There’s no need to move into a hut, but perhaps you could indulge one of his smaller superstitions?"

"Perhaps." Vassa sighs, resting her chin on her hand. "One of his favorite names is 'Allura.' The birth date is supposed to fall under that star, and he thinks that honoring it will be auspicious. I think he's just trying to veto 'Abiza', but I say she’s a far more powerful goddess." She pats her belly again. "This child will be a spitfire, I can tell. They should have a fiery name to match!"

She breaks off as Alfor breaks free from Blatyz to steal Coran from Honerva's arms, shouting an apology to the bride with a slurred tongue and a wide smile. Vassa laughs and waves at her husband and his other consort as they hurtle past, giggling madly. Zarkon catches Honerva's eye.

 _What are you waiting for? Are you going to dance with me, or not?_ her expression says. He shakes his head, and she frowns, the frown that always pins him, snares him, and forces his hand. He stands, sighing, and turns to Vassa.

"Name the child 'Allura,'" he says. "Knowing you and the King, they will be fiery and powerful enough. An auspicious name from a lesser goddess might help to balance them out."

Vassa's eyes twinkle. “Zarkon, you are truly the wisest man in the universe," she croons. "What would we do without you?"

"Fill your planet with hell-raising royal children, I expect." Zarkon smiles, and with Vassa's leave goes to the waiting arms of his wife.

 

* * *

 

The tension begins to show long before the rifts do. There’d been a war between their planets in the early days of intersystem exploration. An Altean patrol vessel fired on one of their colonies, a Galra scout attacked an Altean passenger cruiser, these and other small tragedies that festered into a century-long conflict. The first peace treaty lasted four thousand years before a political mishap led to an arms race, then a standoff, then a tense signing of sanctions under the watchful eye of the Apeiron Court. Since then peace and war have always come between them like the tides, an endless cycle engrained in them both.

When they hear the Emperor sought a marital blessing from the High Priest of Altea, his people remember only the times of war. Their Galran marriage had not been a secret, but it hadn’t been widely known, either. Now the radicals treat news of the Altean wedding as proof that King Alfor wishes to personally spit in the face of them all.

“Of course there is peace, for the moment,” they say in their pamphlets, in vids, in stream channels, in the streets. “Our great Emperor has the wild Altean king under his thumb. But who knows what could happen if there’s an Altean Empress whispering in his ear, swaying his loyalty? How can we trust a foreigner with our future?”

His ministers recommend more patrols in the remote colonies, more propaganda on the planet-wide streams. He does everything as he is told. He is more careful about the deals that he makes with Altea's allies and even more careful with its enemies. He tries to put forth a face of Galran pride, a face unconcerned with gossip about where his loyalties lie and who shares his bed at night. The radicals are right about one thing: their Emperor fears no “wild” Altean king. He only must portray the alliance as one without personal feelings.

But the discord persists in the colonies, then snakes its way through the outer planets to the central system, and then finally to the center of Daibazaal and the capitol. Honerva is the first to spot the scrawl: **GHRIVAN NA ALTEE'ANIX** , in red paint on Korvo Bridge, large enough for anyone on the street to see.

 _"Go home, Altean bitch."_ Her smiles does not reach her eyes. "I'm insulted by the poor grammar. _Ghrivat naal Altee'anix_ is the correct tense, is it not?"

It is erased within a day. Zarkon orders his guard to execute the artist without trial, if found. If not found, to execute any lowlife caught with paint on the street until the city rounds the traitor up of its own accord. But Honerva is not intimidated.

"Of course they're angry," she scoffs. "To a Galra, I'm a terrible choice for a spouse. I’ve won no battles and can bear you no children. I will never be their Empress."

She urges him—as she had done before they were wed—to take consorts, like Alfor. An Altean wife for his heart and a Galra wife for the empire. She could let another take over her duties to the throne. She could stay out of the public eye. She could continue her work.

"That is not our way," he insists. "You are my only wife, and it will always be so." He cups her face in his hand, her soft skin pricked by his nails. "I do not want anyone else."

Honerva presses his palm to her lips. "My poor husband," she murmurs, kissing the tips of his fingers, "forgive me, for I have softened you beyond repair."

Two weeks later, the bridge is defaced again. **ALTEE SA GROTIL XUM’RAAN** : _Altea has stolen our throne._ This time it is only three hours before the culprit is arrested, turned in by a comrade imprisoned under the suspicion of the same charge. They behead him in the main square and hang the body where his traitorous words once were. You can’t find anything on the streams that isn’t state-sponsored anymore.

On the advice of his ministers, they do not hold a coronation ceremony. Honerva is listed in the royal records as an Imperial Alchemical Consultant, a meaningless title for a non-existent appointment. When addressed in court, she is “Her Excellency.” Never “Her Imperial Majesty.”

 

* * *

 

The news of Lady Vassa's death comes not from the King of Altea, but from the Second Consort.

"He hasn't been well," Coran says, himself looking drained and bereft. "He's too proud to ask, but it would comfort him if you were to visit as soon as possible."

Honerva takes more convincing. “You're already being accused of catering to Alfor's interests, and it's improper to visit a widower's house before the mourning week has passed,” she argues, hardly looks up from a list of energy readings. “Going to Altea before the funeral will cause a scandal on both planets.”

“The Galra have no such tradition. A man’s whole village would go to his house, cook his food, clean his rooms, and help him wash the dead before they are burned. They take on the burden of his grief.” He wraps his arms around her from behind, resting his head atop her hair. “He is my friend. He would do the same for me, scandal or not.”

She runs her hand gently over his arm. “Very well. If anyone on Daibazaal asks, we'll pretend it's a necessary courtesy. If anyone on Altea asks, you can play the ignorant foreigner."

The Castle is draped in banners when their shuttle arrives, deep magenta silks cascading down its towers like silent waterfalls. Alfor’s clothes match the draperies, but the vivid color doesn’t suit him. He looks pale, faded, a man made shadow. Zarkon clasps his friend's arm and draws him against his chest tightly, holding him there for a moment. When he releases him, Alfor manages to summon a thin, grateful smile.

“Zarkon,” he says, “I wish this visit was for a happier occasion. In only a month I would’ve summoned you here myself to test out the new engines I’ve built, but who can make plans under the whim of the gods?” He runs a hand over his face, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. “Will you stay for the funeral? I know you don’t care for our ceremonies, but—“

“Of course we'll stay,” Zarkon promises. Honerva says nothing, but nods to Alfor as well. Then with a start she cries out with pain and jumps forward.

Standing behind her is a child, a tiny Altean girl in a magenta gown. She has a cloud of silver-white hair and too-large ears, and fitted onto her tiny hand is a massive shock gauntlet. Alfor snatches the weapon away at once, yelping himself as he tosses it from hand to hand before finding the off switch. The girl uses the distraction to scurry away and hide behind Zarkon’s legs.

“My friends,” Alfor huffs, once he’s smoothed his hair back down, “though it has been some time, I trust you remember my daughter, Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess of Altea, Allura Alforin A’Vassani.”

“Your Royal Highness,” Honerva grits through her teeth, still managing to dip into a bow. The girl shuffles further away, using his knees for a shield. Zarkon has to twist at the waist to look down at her.

“Your Royal Highness,” he says. “My condolences upon the death of your honored mother. May time unburden you from your sorrows, and bring glory to her memory.”

The princess blinks up at him owlishly. For a moment he worries that he spoke too heavily for a child to understand—she is only twenty perhaps, maybe thirty?—but then she squints, sticks out her tongue, and bolts from the room. Alfor calls after her, but the tiny footsteps fade quickly away.

“She’s not usually this shy,” Alfor says, handing off the stolen gauntlet to an attendant, “but unfortunately the shocks are quite normal. She chews through my lab's best locks like a Durnese rat. Vassa used to call her ‘Bumblebee’ because she got her nose into everything.” A smile rises on his lips and then quickly fades away. “She’s taken the death well, but I can’t tell if it’s because she’s a smart girl or because she doesn’t fully understand. Thank the Ancients that I have Coran, otherwise I don’t know how I’d—“ He clears his throat, looking away. “Thank you, again, for coming. Let me show you to your quarters.”

Zarkon dons the magenta robes Alfor has made for him, letting Honerva adjust the sleeves and the fit of the shoulders. “Approach the bier, lay a hand on the burial cloth, and then take your seat,” she instructs him, fastening his usual cape around his shoulders. The colors clash badly. “I’ll nudge you when you have to stand or bow during the rites.”

The Temple of Being unsettles him. Mosaics of Altea’s many gods cover the interior, their glassy eyes watching him from every nook and cranny. Their forms are endless: some look like ordinary Alteans, some like many-limbed beasts, and some in shape of beings that don’t exist at all. The King’s Guard carries the bier before the High Priest, who begins the ceremony in his dry, wheedling voice, thumbing through several holoscreens to keep track of the prayers. The King, the Second Consort, and other members of the royal family cluster around the bier. Zarkon spots the young princess in her father’s arms. Her pink dress is wrinkled, her hair mussed on one side. She appears to have already fallen asleep, lulled by the long chants as the rest of her family covers Vassa with a blue sheet and mounds of flowers.

He can feel the stiffness of the body underneath the fabric when he lays his hand as Honerva instructed—frightening, to think such a vibrant woman could so easily become a cold, dead thing. He whispers a short prayer in Di’baash before moving away. _Surely,_ he thinks, _these foreign gods would not mind the blessings of one more._

When all gathered in the Temple have taken their turns approaching the body, the King’s Guard lifts the bier again to carry it out of the Temple and onto the carriage that will ferry Lady Vassa to her grave. As it leaves, the High Priest begins the final incantation to finish the ceremony, and the slam of the huge Temple doors is what awakens the princess.

She lifts her head from Alfor’s shoulder and looks around her, confused. She says something to her father, but Zarkon is too far away to hear what it is. Alfor only shakes his head and presses his finger to his lips. The princess speaks again, now loud enough to carry over the High Priest’s droning.

“Father? Where has Mother gone?”

Alfor whispers into her ear. The tiny face falls. The princess pushes away from him, attempting to break free of his arms.

“Where’s the Guard? Why did they take her away? I didn’t see her go, I didn’t see where they went.” Alfor sets her down, unable to contain her squirming. The other royals look nervous, exchanging panicked glances. The High Priest clears his throat and speaks louder, trying to move on. Alfor is bent over, having a hushed and harried conversation with his daughter, who becomes more agitated the more he explains. She stamps her little foot, the sound echoing in the quiet Temple.

“It’s not fair!” she shouts. “I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

The Crown Princess of Altea begins to cry.

Zarkon looks around at the nobility gathered here, at all of the attendants, soldiers, and workers who have come to honor the late First Consort. Not a single one approaches the princess. Not one moves forward to comfort her. Her own father stands shock-still, both hands resting awkwardly on her small shoulders, looking more miserable than Zarkon has ever seen him. He feels fury claw up inside him at such a scene. Honerva has to squeeze his arm hard to get his attention.

“Let it go,” she whispers. “She’s not yet learned to control her emotions. An Altean doesn’t make such a display in public, especially not a royal.”

“She’s a child,” he growls. “On my world, we don’t shame our children for behaving like children.”

Before she can stop him, he walks forward and joins the royal party.

“Come, Your Highness,” he says, and plucks the girl up from the floor. For a moment she is startled out of her tears, gulping soundlessly as she stares at him. As he turns and heads toward the Temple doors, he sees Honerva quickly push through their row of seated diplomats to meet him in the aisle. She exits the Temple at his side as if it is the most natural thing in the world that the Galran Emperor should leave before the ceremony ends, his quick-thinking wife.

He is not used to carrying children. He jostles the princess a little, trying to adjust his grip, and she throws her arms around his neck to hold on. He hopes he hasn’t hurt her somehow.

“Do you know where my mother is?” she sniffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“Yes,” Zarkon answers. “I’ll take you to her.” He jostles her again, but she only holds tighter, her little head tucked against his neck. Honerva presses a careful hand against her back, asking if Her Highness would prefer to walk. She doesn’t receive a reply.

Together they push through the doors, leaving the watching gods behind.

 

* * *

 

Some months later, Honerva braids her cobalt hair at the edge of their bed, her bare arms long and silver-green in the moonlight.

“We should have an heir,” she says, crossing the strands over and under, over and under. “We should have a child.”

He strokes a finger around the small bone of her ankle, making circles on her calf. “It wouldn’t survive the birth. Hybrids never do. We knew that when we chose to marry.”

“It doesn’t have to be born.” Honerva ties the end of her plait with a black thread, wrapping the ends around her finger. “Birthing pods have existed for centuries. If the first cells are stable, the child will develop safely. On Altea only peasants and royals still do things the natural way, for reasons of expense and outdated tradition.”

She catches his hand, pressing it against her knee. Here in the darkness the half-moon marks on her cheeks look purple, nearly black.

“I want to run some tests,” she says. “A true hybrid would be sterile, but I could take fertilized cells from you or I and modify them with traits from the other species. This way the mutations would be too small to affect their health, and the genetic code would still be enough to make them a true heir.” She crawls to him, leaning over to sit on his lap. “Think of it, my love,” she whispers. “The first child of two worlds.”

He runs his hand over the perfect waves of her braid, down her neck, down her back. “Our child,” he murmurs, tasting the way the words sound.

For the next few weeks he thinks often of Alfor’s daughter. She was a mirror image of her late mother, but there was something of Alfor in the way she moved, so sure of her place in the universe. He remembers the weight of her in his arms, the warmth of her tiny form clinging to his chest. Though he will respect Honerva if she wishes otherwise, he determines that their heir should be brought up only under Galran teachings. A Galra embraces all of their emotions, feels them loudly and fully and suffers no shame for it.

He loses himself in dreams of the future, dreams of an Empress and an Heir by his side. Perhaps this child would be enough to change public opinion of Honerva and her people. Perhaps this child would be enough to bring a lasting peace.

Weeks pass. When he asks Honerva about the results of her tests, she silently leads him to a cluttered corner of her lab. In a glass vial is a small, formless lump of tissue, gray-purple and covered in cancerous lumps. It could never have grown into a whole organ, let alone a child.

They do not speak of heirs again.

 

* * *

 

It becomes harder and harder for the city workers to clean the paint from Korvo Bridge. **ALTEE’ANIX** , it says, large and small, in every color of the rainbow. Clever wordplay, someone probably thought, to combine _Altee’an_ —”the Altean”—with the curse _enix_ — a ”bitch” or “hag,” a word reserved for the lowest of the low. He holds public executions as often as twice as week. He issues arrests for anyone who would dare question the will of the Emperor. Altea is no threat to Daibazaal, the doctored streams insist, because the might of Zarkon is absolute.

Voltron calls and he makes excuses not to answer. He hates to go off-planet now. What if something were to happen to Honerva and he's not there to prevent it?

"Stop it," she orders him. "You're distracting me with all your hemming and hawing. I can't get anything done with you around. Go visit Alfor and annoy him instead. And if anyone dares come for me while you're away, I’ll at last have test subjects for our new defense system."

“How can I visit Alfor when they throw fits if you are even seen with me in public?” he argues, pacing in front of the holding tank she’s filled with strange, green-eyed creatures from a new rift that opened in a northern jungle. “Saying the very word ‘Altea’ is enough to light torches and load blasters these days.”

“Have your vid makers dress it up as a boundary negotiation, or a trade limit, or whatever you like.” Honerva shrugs. “Pretend like you want to traverse half the galaxy just to loom over them. The people won’t know any better.”

He brings a team of vid makers and dismisses them once they have enough footage to edit. Out of sight of the recording bots, Alfor throws an arm around him and shows him around the modified Lion hangars. Among the team of engineers busy with the King’s latest idea is a young woman he's not seen before. Her fine clothes and delicate jewelry put her sorely out of place in the room full of grease-stained flightsuits.

“Allura, there you are!” Alfor beckons her to them. She obeys with some reluctance. “Zarkon, I’m sure my Bumblebee needs no introduction.”

"Pleased to see you again, Your Royal Highness," he says. She doesn't come any closer, so Zarkon assumes he doesn't have to kiss her cheeks like he would've with her mother. It's a small relief. "Has it really been so long? You're twice as tall as when I saw you last!"

"Alteans age at double the rate of your species, Your Imperial Majesty," the princess drawls. "The next time you visit I'll likely be half-dead."

After shooting a pointed look at his daughter, Alfor leads him quickly away. "I'm so sorry," he says. "She's going through a rather morbid phase right now. Coran says it'll pass, and by the Ancients I hope he's right."

"How long has this phase been going on?"

"Oh, twenty years, give or take," Alfor sighs. "You know how teenagers are. She's ninety-five and thinks she knows everything."

They spend most of the week discussing new fuel lines to install in the Lions, how to alchemize another source of weaponry to add to the left arm, old stories of their youth that still get them to laugh for hours. Alfor asks if he should summon the other three Paladins, and Zarkon can’t think of why he should refuse. Soon the five of them are sitting around Alfor’s banquet table, plied with drink and food, jokes and barbs traded back and forth. He has not felt so happy, so welcome, in gods know how long.

How could the vid makers transform this scene? _See the Emperor mimic the barbarians to respect their primitive ways. See our great leader lull Altea into thinking they have the upper hand. See him ensure that Voltron is kept under Galran control, that the Black Lion is the best and most advanced piece of weaponry that may protect us if war should come._

Deep into a half-serious argument on which leg has more power, a page approaches Alfor with a look of dread in his eyes.

“Sir,” he says, “your presence is required in the main hangar.”

“It can wait, Jeenik,” Alfor yawns, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “I’ll talk to the engine team about the speed controls on Green in the morning.”

"That’s not the problem, sir." The page's voice is trembling. "One of the Lions was—was taken for an unapproved flight."

They all fall silent.

“Which Lion?” Alfor asks, voice low and deadly. The page looks close to fainting.

“Black, sir.” Zarkon feels his blood run cold. Alfor stands slowly, fists clenched.

“And where,” he growls, “is my daughter?”

She landed—crashed—badly. Skid marks mar the hangar floor, dozens of workshop tables are overturned over a field of shattered glass. A group of Altean soldiers are clustered around a prototype fuel tank, hurriedly putting out the remains of a small fire. Alfor tears across the hangar, shoving his own technicians out of his way as he climbs up the Lion to reach the cockpit.

He tears the door off with one hand and jumps inside. A few moments later, he emerges amid a cloud of smoke, one arm supporting the battered young princess.

A medic hurries over to scan her. Zarkon doesn’t hear what the results are, but Alfor lets the them spread a yellow salve over the princess' scratches. She flinches when prodded but doesn’t cry out. Her face looks very carefully composed, like a spy preparing to be interrogated. When the medic is finished Alfor waves them aside.

"Everyone," he shouts to the crowded hangar, his voice booming above the noise, "get out."

The room empties within seconds. Only the princess and Paladins remain.

Alfor pinches a spot on his throat and begins to speak to his daughter, first slowly and coldly, then rapidly gaining speed and rage. His voice is oddly pitched at first, rising and falling in a cadence that Zarkon has never heard him use before. It takes him another few sentences to realize that the cadence is merely the enunciation of spoken Altean; Alfor has turned off his translator to scold his daughter in front of his guests.

Muttering to the other three to stay behind, Zarkon reaches up to rub a spot on the back of his neck, and approaches.

"How did it fly?" he asks the princess.

Alfor's head jolts up. "Zarkon," he sputters, "I'm so sorry—I didn't want to make a scene—I thought no one knew the language—"

"Honerva taught me," he replies calmly. "Though my accent needs work." He turns back to the princess, ignoring Alfor's next stream of apologies. "How did it fly?"

She spares a single glance for her father before she answers, "Like a dream."

Zarkon nods. "Incredible, isn't it? I've never flown anything like her before. She makes our fighter pods feel like farm ploughs. How does it compare to an Altean scout?"

The princess deflates. "I wouldn't know. They only let me practice on freighters. That's why I botched the landing—I didn't know how early I should've started docking." She glances at her father again. "I know I shouldn't have have taken it. I've ruined all the work you and Father have done, and all the work the crew did too, I just wanted to try—"

"Alfor," Zarkon interrupts. "Get your daughter a battleship."

Alfor opens his mouth, takes a breath, and closes it again. He repeats the action several times, and Zarkon commits it to memory. It will amuse Honerva later to hear that this is the day the man has finally been made speechless.

"A large class, I think," he continues. "Something with real weight behind it, so she can get a feel for the rockets. How could you have kept her on freighters? You've wasted her talent on something a child could fly." He gestures to the rubble around them. "Now, if this is settled, let's leave this mess to the engineers."

He pushes Alfor gently ahead of him, toward the other Paladins—none of whom understood a word of what was said and all of whom look perplexed about it—and extends a hand to the princess. She gets to her feet easily; he finds himself surprised by his relief that none of her injuries are serious. _How does Alfor do it,_ he wonders, _how does he find time to worry about both a spouse and a child?_ Honerva alone occupies his mind enough. The princess stays by his side in the back of the group, ignoring her father as he sends half-worried, half-angry looks over his shoulder.

"About the Lion, does it—do you ever hear it speak to you?" she whispers to Zarkon when they are far behind enough to not be overheard.

He furrows his brow. "Did it speak to _you?"_

"Well, I guess it didn't, technically." She rubs at her elbow, looking embarrassed. "I just knew something was there, and I knew that it was the Lion. It was like—like it was using my own thoughts to tell me something, because it didn't know how to say it itself yet."

"And what did it say?"

The princess looks him in the eye. Even married to an Altean, he is still thrown by their eyes. They are too wide, too vivid, the layers of color spilling into each other like a pool of oil in the sun. Many Galra have long said that Altean eyes make the species untrustworthy; with eyes that deep, how can you ever know what they're really thinking? Zarkon meets her heavy gaze and resists the urge to flinch.

 _"It is not your turn,"_ the princess says. "That's what the Black Lion told me." Her serious expression grows sheepish once more. "So I turned around, because I figured the Lion was mad at me for taking it without asking. That's what it meant, right?"

Zarkon folds his hands behind his back and looks straight ahead. “I’m no expert on the whims of ships, Your Highness. But thank you for returning mine, even if you did steal it in the first place.”

At the end of the week he returns to Daibazaal. Honerva is safe, the people are quiet, nothing has gone amiss in his absence. Yet he tosses and turns until Honerva pushes him out of their bed, and then he paces in his office until dawn rises. _Why should I worry about Alfor's daughter?_ he chastises himself. _She's no threat to me. She said it herself: I will outlive her. I’ll outlive Alfor too, and when he’s gone the Lion will be mine to use as I wish. It’s loyal to me. It spoke to her, but it turned her away. It’s loyal only to me._

When Honerva asks what troubles him, he says, "I missed you. I don't see the point in leaving home if you won't be with me."

"Then you’ll never leave home," she teases. She pinches him, and he pinches back, and soon they are laughing and tickling each other like children. She is right, Zarkon thinks, he will never leave home, never again.

 

* * *

 

A rift claims almost half of the Brazeen Territory in the southern hemisphere. In the city of Jorsalan on the border of the disaster, a group of Altean alchemists are rounded up by a mixed group of rebels and radical soldiers and beaten nearly to death. “Their witchcraft is destroying us!” they cry en masse. “The Altean Bitch won’t stop until the rifts swallow the Emperor himself!”

A crowd meets in the capitol square: fifty thousand strong, a hundred thousand, one million and then another million, screaming, shouting, demanding he deliver his traitorous wife to their waiting hands.

She watches the stream on the riots from their quarters, silent.

“Honerva,” he begs, “please. Anything but this.”

She uses her comm to call for an attendant and gives an order. The attendant returns with a blade. In her thin, bony hands at first the blade is too long, too heavy, but then her hands begin to change. She grows to twice her normal height, shoulders bulging with muscle, legs thickening with plated armor. In her new shape Honerva twirls the sword once, testing the weight.

“We can negotiate with them somehow. We can summon Voltron and use the Lions to—”

"No," she refuses. "When I married you, I married Daibazaal. I became a Galra. I will fix this the Galran way."

They land entire ships to section the crowd. In the streets of the capitol, the world’s largest arena is made. Honerva has to be taken by a scout ship to step into its center.

"A challenge has been made against me." She points to the crowd with her sword. "You, the people, have questioned my honor, integrity, and loyalty to the Empire. I stand before you now to prove I will put the Empire before my very life." She settles into a battle stance, the sword a beam of silver lighting clutched in her hand. "Let any who doubt my loyalty come forward. I will fight to the last citizen standing, or until my blood is spilt by your hands. Come forward now. Come and face the Altean Bitch!"

They come.

How long does she fight? He doesn’t keep track. She changes her shape a hundred times, a thousand, whatever form it will take to defeat the next opponent, and then a different one for the opponent after that. This is why the Galra fear an Altean war, he realizes. This is why Altea could conquer the universe if it wished. This power, this skill, this birthright of battle bred into each of them that turns their species into monsters.

His people feared his wife because they did not know her true strength. Now they have seen it, and they will fear her enough to love her.

She drags the bodies into a pile. She dips her fingers into the pools of blood and draws them over her marks, erasing them.

“A sacrifice,” she cries, “in the name of the Emperor! Death to the enemies of Daibazaal and the Galra! Death to the enemies of Zarkon!”

And the crowd joins her to chant, over and over: _VREPIT SA VREPIT SA VREPIT SA._ Glory, endless.

In the royal records there is no more Honerva, Imperial Alchemical Consultant. Zarkon’s new Imperial Hand is known as Haggar. It is a traditional name—a Di’baash name—meaning “champion.”

 

* * *

 

The Southern Hemisphere must be evacuated. The Kunik Fissure, the deepest point of the sea, begins to glow with pale gold light. The vids speculate on what could be causing the death of Daibazaal; if the Emperor’s best scientists can’t fix it, then who is responsible? Who is to blame?

His wife was always small, but she grows thinner. The skin around her eyes sags and the corners of her mouth wrinkle and pucker. Her cobalt hair is white as dust and more brittle than straw. When Kova finally dies—twitching and foaming blood at the mouth for several hours on a table while the lab assistants take notes—he knows that the worst is imminent. But Honerva brushes him aside.

“Stop it,” she says. Her throat bobs when she speaks, the bones of her spine visible on the back of her neck. “I can’t get any work done with you and your medics nagging me so.”

One morning he wakes to news that there is an Altean ambassador waiting for an audience just outside his bedroom door.

“Get rid of them.”

“Sir, she cannot be moved.”

“If you’re too cowardly to arrest her, then summon the sentries.”

“We did, sir. She broke six of them. She cannot be moved, physically.”

When he opens the door, there is a fleeting moment where he thinks he’s seeing Lady Vassa’s ghost.

“Your Imperial Majesty. I am Allura, Crown Princess of Altea. We’ve met before.” The princess bows with the stiffness of someone who does not often meet others ranked higher than herself. “You were scheduled to attend the Galactic Inter-Economic Alliance conference last month and did not arrive. My father—I mean, King Alfor—was concerned that this meant you want to break from your agreement with the Alliance. Unfortunately a border war has summoned him to Keltus-9, so he sent me in his place.” She laces her hands together, fingers twitching nervously. “I hope I’ve not intruded.”

“You have.” He doesn’t bother to disguise the irritation in his voice. “Pardon me, Your Highness, but I have more important things going on in my empire. If your father wanted to reprimand me for such petty matters, he should’ve sent a note to my secretary. He’s wasted your time and mine.”

The princess catches the door with one hand before he can fully close it. He pulls harder. It does not budge.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but if you do mean to exit the Alliance you'll still need to meet with its representatives, and the Apeiron Court as well. There must be a draft of the terms, otherwise Daibazaal will be shunned from several hundred trade deals. Tariffs will rise astronomically. Your economy is sure to suffer a blow.” She narrows her eyes, studying him. “Is that really what you intend?”

“What I intend for my world is no concern of Altea’s,” he snaps. “Tell your father that. I will not argue politics with a little girl.”

The princess clenches her jaw. She releases the door. There is a perfect handprint left on the steel, warping the metal where she pushed, but there is nothing but serene calm on her face.

“Understood, Your Majesty,” she says. “I will relay your message.”

The princess’ ship takes off without flying the royal banner, as if the pilot already knows that displaying the Altean flag would risk the vessel being shot down before it reaches its destination.

 

* * *

 

The average Altean has a life expectancy of eight or nine hundred years. The average Galra could live upwards of two thousand.

His wife—his brilliant, lovely, doomed wife—dies just before her five-hundredth birthday.

 

* * *

 

On the day of the Crown Prince’s birth, the Imperial Archivist bows before Zarkon and opens a holoscreen that stretches from one side of the throne room to the other.

“May I congratulate the Emperor on the birth of his son,” the Archivist announces, saluting him. “The Crown Prince was delivered from the birthing pod at the expected time, a perfect heir of Galra blood in this nine-thousandth year of Zarkon’s reign.”

With a flick of her wrist, the holoscreen transforms into a tree of the royal family, a lineage with names that stretches back more generations than anyone can count. Beneath his entry is a new blank space, a new descendant waiting to be named.

“His Imperial Highness shall be called Lotor, of the House Zhin’aath,” Zarkon declares, and all gathered in the throne room drop to their knees, fists clenched in salute.

 _“Vrepit sa,”_ they praise as one.

But the Archivist’s hand hesitates over the holoscreen. “I would never doubt the decision of my Emperor,” she begins, “but I thought that His Highness was to be named ‘Zarkaal,’ or ‘Zartox,’ as Her Excellency Madame Haggar had intended—”

She stops speaking as Zarkon rises from his throne and descends the stairs, one step at a time. Without a word he waves his hand and the holoscreen clears of names and births and deaths. Now spread across the throne room is a perfect map of the night sky.

“Today,” he says, “is a day that falls under the star Lotor. It would be auspicious to name the Crown Prince for that star, would it not?”

“Indeed, sir,” the Archivist stutters.

“And with such a legacy to inherit, it would do my son good to have a name that would help him balance the burden of mine, would it not?”

“It would, of course, it would.” The Archivist summons the chart again. She carefully scrawls the title in ancient Di’baash, growing another shoot on the ancient branch of House Zhin’aath. “Glory to the Empire, and to His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince Lotor. _Vrepit sa.”_

With a flourish, the name appears above their heads, fixed and final in the heavens.

**Author's Note:**

> To interested grammarians: you probably noticed that I alternated capitalizations of "princess." They're not typos!!! You should find (if I did it right) that there are P's where Allura's title "Crown Princess" itself is used and p's when she is referred to as a subject from Zarkon's POV. While I was following [the rules for using royal titles as epithets or in place of names,](https://www.englishgrammar101.com/module-10/capitalization/lesson-2/titles) I also did this to show Zarkon does not think of Allura as /THE/ Princess but as /A/ princess. If you've read BPR too, you might notice that in that fic Allura is *always* "the Princess" or "the Queen" to note a higher degree of respect that those characters have for her. 
> 
> ……………SORRY THAT I DEVOTED AN ENTIRE NOTE TO THIS I JUST THINK IT'S FASCINATING!!!!!


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